Poetry

                                                SECRETS

                                     Place your head among the mountains,
                                     Your feet in desert sands.
                                     Feel the living harmonies
                                     That grow beneath your hands.
                                     Watch for every rhythm
                                     That ripples through your head
                                     And hear the hidden language;
                                     The secrets of the dead.
                                     In the ocean lies the fingerprint,
                                     In the fingerprint the sky,
                                     And through the well-thumbed sunsets
                                     The wind may shriek or sigh.
                                     The secrets in the dust of death
                                     Towards new life must fly;
                                     The secrets lost in dying breath
                                     That force the new-born cry.

- Keith Morant

PORCELAIN

                                               Some lovers juggle
                                               With the vessel they have made,
                                               And accidents will happen.
                                             I have seen them staring
                                               At a newly formed crack

Gentle fingers tracing,

Apologies and Tears

                                              I have also known
                                              Their love turned around,
                                              The best side only showing
                                              To the light and all who pass.
                                              How foolish not to know
                                              That in darkness cracks will grow,
                                              Even shatter with the cold.

                                             So let us not be jugglers
                                             Of human porcelain,
                                             But hold with caring hands
                                             And drink with kissing lips
                                             From this vessel of our love.

- Keith Morant

TWILIGHT

When I am an old man
I shall wear a large wide brimmed hat
A long coat flowing
And a very artistic beard.
I shall talk to whom I please
And many whom I won't.
I'll be the Romeo
Of the supermarket
The Socrates of the Gents.
I will converse in verse
With babies in their prams,
And ask every policeman
If he has the time.
I shall trail my stick
Along public railings
And dance hornpipes on the kerbs.
I shall visit the cinema often
And emerge on the street
The hero of every film.
I will guide traffic
And hedghogs
Through city dusks
And sleep only in select
Shop doorways.

But I shall die
In the Library.

- Keith Morant